Fireside Dance
by tsusami
Summary: Roy tells himself to wait just a little bit longer. Spoilers for animated series. Implied Roy.Ed Takes place before the movie.


Fireside Dance

Roy pulls out a standard issue army knife. He slits the thick string easily and slides it off the brown paper. His name is scrawled across the center in Riza's even, curly handwriting. _Colonel Roy Mustang_, she addresses him, despite how long it has been since he held the title. His bare fingers are stiff in the evening air. He tugs at the paper, ignoring the sting of fine paper slicing the barest sliver of flesh on the pad of his index finger. He tears the paper away.

Inside is a plain brown box. Roy smiles because Riza still refuses to stop taking care of him from hundreds of miles away. She respects his wish for no visitors, she never even tries to call, but he cannot get her to stop sending these blasted care packages no matter how many times he chooses not to respond. The blade sinks easily into the cellophane tape, cutting smoothly and releasing the two folds previously held down together. He pulls out a small aluminum can. The word corn is printed neatly in black letters over the simple white label.

Roy smirks and places the can back into the box. He hates corn. He reaches for another package when a small slip of paper catches his eye. It is a small scrap of egg colored paper folded over once in classic Riza style: uncomplicated and efficient. He changes the direction of his hand and picks it up. He unfolds it slowly and finds the same feminine, curly handwriting.

_Elric passed. Departed from Central yesterday in search of him._

Roy reads these lines once, twice, and then three times. The meaning is just as clear the third time as it is the first. He ignores the slightly irregular pulse thrumming strongly against his throat. He folds the note and places it back inside the box just as calmly as he opened it. He closes the box and pushes it closer to the center of the bare wooden table. His boots traverse the few steps to the soot stained fireplace and he stretches his numb fingers over the flames.

A state alchemist at age fifteen--only three years after his brother. The same age as his brother at the time of his disappearance.

Roy doesn't know what the younger Elric brother looks like. Whenever the name Elric comes up he pictures a large suit of animated armor. He imagines a long red coat and golden hair falling in waves. He is haunted by gold eyes flashing at him defiantly. He remembers Edward.

Edward would be sixteen now, almost seventeen. Perhaps he has grown an inch taller, if at all, given the weight of the automail weighing down his body and his strong aversion to dairy. His hair will still be long of course, braided simply or maybe pulled into a pony tail. He will wear gloves to hide his missing hand and long sleeves.

Roy rubs his bare hands together. The skin is dry, cracked at the knuckles and cold to his own touch. It feels almost as cool as the metal grip of Edward's automail in the winter months.

His hands can't get warm enough and he reaches for the small box on top of the mantle. He clasps the wooden box with two hands, yanks it from its resting place and pauses just as suddenly. He flips the lid open with his thumbs, clenching his jaw and focusing on the pressed white gloves inside. His eyes trace the spidery red lines stitching a familiar web.

Roy knows what Riza is asking even without the written question. But it is not time, he tells himself. It is still too soon. Slowly, he extends the box over the fire. His hands tremble and he tells himself to let it go, to let the fire take it. The red and yellow flames stare back at him.

The box is moving slowly, slowly, away from the fire. It floats back to a dustless outline on the mantle where Roy holds it and feels his body collapsing in on itself. Not yet, he tells himself. Not yet. He can't give up just yet. Just one more day, he reassures himself.

He straightens his back and returns to the package on the table. He unloads its contents perfunctorily and places each can neatly in the pantry. He'll wait for the next package, he tells himself. He'll wait for the next note and next time he will know his answer. Next time he will put an end to this winter dance by the fire.


End file.
